Robin Chapman posts a poem, most days, from fellow poets with one of her watercolors.

8/07/2011

by David Graham

On Finding My Father Still in My Address Book

Two years since he died, ten since his last email,I fight the urge to email him, knowing how I'll feel when it bounces. Better to imagine him perchedat his old computer with instruction manual laid outon the desk, carefully making his way number to number down the list of Frequently Asked Questions.

Almost every night I look up at the moon,the few constellations I can identify, and thinkof him sweeping his arm horizon to horizon,explaining that dome of glitter above us.I've forgotten most of it besides Orion, Polaris,the Great and Minor Bears. But his steady voiceenters my dream like conversation in a room next door, parents going over their day as the lamp slowly cools and stars appear out the window.

No words I can make out, but a sound I like to listen for nonetheless. You are my most frequently asked question, Dad. The answer, too, I guess.